


Bent Rule

by Aris Merquoni (ArisTGD)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (2003 2006 2007)
Genre: Multi, Open Relationship, Podfic Available, post-trilogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-07
Updated: 2007-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArisTGD/pseuds/Aris%20Merquoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Elizabeth both want to get closer together... even if it's only metaphorically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bent Rule

The funny thing about being dead was the number of people who noticed. Well, not people, always--dogs could sense it, and cats, too, though they sometimes came up to rub against his legs just to be ornery. Madmen would stare or scream, children would duck behind their parents... well, it was all part of the package, wasn't it. Along with not casting a shadow on shore, and probably a few other things he'd be bothered by when he got more used to it.

He knocked on the door of the small cartographer's shop and waited. Footsteps, and the sound of a bolt sliding back, and then the blinking eyes of someone else who noticed he was dead.

He tipped the brim of his hat back. "Mrs. Turner. Elizabeth."

"James Norrington." She tilted her head to one side. "Weren't you--"

"Yes," he cut her off, before she could say it. "I know." He smiled wryly. "Might I come in? I have a message."

For one awful moment, he imagined she might say no. But with a confused smile, she stepped back and open the door. "Of course."

The stairs over her shop led up into a small living area, another room in shadow behind a doorway. She watched him, only barely hovering, as he hung his hat and took a seat by the stove.

"A message, you said?" she asked, pulling a kettle off the stove and busying herself with a china tea set probably worth more than the rent on the shop.

James pulled the folded note from his breast pocket and held it up when she approached with a cup and saucer. "Captain Turner's compliments."

She would have dropped the tea, so he took it from her as she snatched the letter from his hand. She sank into the seat across from him as she read it; he set the tea on the table and waited.

Her eyes flicked up to his, finally, and her voice was steady as she said, "So you've joined the crew of the Flying Dutchman?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth frowned. "I thought the crew of the Dutchman was made of sailors avoiding death, not..." she trailed off, blushing suddenly. James smirked. She was still a governor's daughter by training, and it would be awfully gauche to remind one's visitor that he was deceased.

"Apparently," he said, "all sorts of rules can be bent if you strike them at the right time."

She nodded, then folded the letter back into thirds and set it on the table. "How is Will? I mean--" she tapped the letter, "apart from this. You've _seen_ him. How is he?"

"He's well," he replied truthfully. "The work is... good. Purposeful."

"And you're given free rein to leave the ship?"

Her voice was only slightly bitter; she'd had over a year to get used to the idea, after all. "Not quite free," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably. "But moreso than the captain, yes."

"How long can you stay?"

She was looking to her writing desk. Of course. He tried to smile reassuringly. "I need to be out with the morning tide."

"I can make you a cot..." she stood, looked around the room.

He cleared his throat. "Actually, I... don't sleep."

She looked at him. He shrugged, and she blushed again. "Sorry."

"It's all right."

"Please, stay?" She gestured at the tea. "I'll need to write Will back..."

"Thank you." He picked up his tea to be polite. It smelled wonderful. Tasted all right, too, though the mouthful he swallowed sat in his stomach in a way that suggested further experimentation among that line would cause more embarrassment than it was worth.

She gripped his shoulder and gave him her own letter before retiring, completely unashamed. "Thank you, James. Good night."

"Good night, Elizabeth," he said. The warmth of her fingers on the parchment stayed for a few seconds before he tucked the note safely away.

* * *

"Just as I thought," Will Turner said when he read the letter, leaning over the railing of the Flying Dutchman and squinting in the eerie twilight.

"Captain?"

Turner gave James a faintly disdainful expression.

He couldn't hold back an embarrassed grin. "Sorry. Will. I was in the navy a very long time."

"Mmmm." Turner went back to the letter. "Elizabeth is very good at catching hints... and very bad at taking suggestions."

"I had noticed that, yes." Though it was always dangerous to critique another man's wife, not even taking into account their particular history.

Turned smiled, then ran his hand over his eyes and sighed. "God. I miss her already." He brightened momentarily. "Did you see our child?"

James winced, shook his head. "I deemed it a bad idea. Infants react poorly to dead people."

"Fair enough." Turner folded the letter neatly, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Would you take another letter to her, when we have the chance to come around again?"

Will's expression was less inquiring than it was pleading. James had to smile. "Of course."

* * *

The band of pirates was on the far end of the dock, advancing slowly in the twilight, waving torches and yelling as loudly as they could.

The town militia stood on the other side of the dock, holding their weapons and shaking from something less than cold.

As James watched, a slim figure pushed her way through the militia and advanced down the dock, swaggering slightly. She wore a sword on her hip and a sailor's cap on her head, set at a jaunty angle. She reached the midpoint of the dock and stopped, hands on hips, chin jutted forward.

Sounds were indistinct from shore, but her tone of voice carried; not so much angry as disdainful. The hoots and catcalls from the pirates quieted, and after a few more sharp exchanges they turned and headed back to their longboat, in silence.

He caught up with her when she'd shaken the few townspeople curious enough to approach her. "Excellent work, your majesty."

Elizabeth turned and grinned. "James!" He was prepared for that, not for her embrace. He squeezed her shoulders gently and let her go. "Yes, well, there remain some advantages to being King of the Pirates. And I have to say, it's been excellent training for raising a three-year-old."

He smiled. "How is the youngest Turner?"

She made a face. "He's discovered mud. He thinks it's the most glorious invention ever to be found on God's green earth. Some days I'd rather be adrift in a rowboat." Her sudden smile was as sincere as it was dazzling. "And then you come--with more news from Will?"

"Yes," he said, and pulled out the letter. She snatched it from his fingers and led the way back to her house, blindly, poring over the page as she walked.

"Ha," she said as she reached the door of her shop, then nothing more on the subject, as she was ambushed by a small, tangible burst of energy. "William Turner, I thought I told you to go to bed!"

"Ma!" the child called, then stopped and stared up at Norrington, wide-eyed.

He tried for a friendly smile. "Hello."

William turned and buried his face in his mother's breeches. Elizabeth sighed and stooped to pick him up. "Ooof. C'mon, off you go."

He stopped to examine one of the maps on the counter as she carried William up the stairs. It was a thing of exquisite detail, though he noticed at least a few coves and bays he knew from memory were mysteriously absent.

"All right, he's in bed, finally," Elizabeth said from halfway up the stairs. "Come on up, I need some tea. Possibly with rum in."

"How is business treating you?" he asked as he followed her to the parlor.

She shrugged. "Well enough. I'm glad I had a nest egg snuck away, though; it would have been impossible these last few years otherwise."

"Can't demand tithe as the King of Pirates?"

That drew a laugh from her. "From the Brethren? You must be joking." She put the tea set on the table, poured him a cup out of reflex. "My sovereign rights are fairly limited."

"But still impressive."

"Thank you." She smirked. "Well. Are you off on the next tide again?"

He nodded. "Unfortunately."

"How _is_ Will?" She brandished the letter. "I get these and... I worry."

James sighed. "He misses you."

"I could come with you," she said. Her knuckles were white. "He can't leave the Dutchman, but I could come aboard--"

"Elizabeth, no. Not to World's End." He reached out for her fingers, barely warmer than his own. "You've already been that way once... bend the rules too often and they break, and you won't be able to return."

Her mouth went thin, stubborn. "It might be worth it to see him--"

"You have a son, Elizabeth," he said quietly.

She glanced backwards, into the dimness of the next room.

"There aren't any children at World's End," he said. "Not except those who... pass beyond."

She sat across from him and covered her face with her hands for a long moment, and when she looked up again there was nothing but calm resignation in her eyes. "I know," she said, "I knew it couldn't be that easy."

He wanted to go to her, to rub his thumb gently over the tired lines between her eyebrows and hold her until she stopped shaking--but Elizabeth didn't need his strength, she needed her husband, who would be gone for six years more.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She smiled briefly. "I should read Will's letter again, and write him back," she said absently.

He curled up in his chair to the sound of her pen scratching on parchment, the tea slowly losing heat into his hands through the china.

* * *

There was a reason the Flying Dutchman was a warship; there were more creatures than the dead who sailed the waters at World's End, and the Dutchman was the only defense for the dead against them.

Soon after James got back on board again there was a melee, a boarding action by a swarm of hissing, red, demi-human _things_ with claws and knobbled backs and eyeless faces full of mouths full of teeth. They went down under a blade; he fought back to back with Turner, and only stumbled when one latched on with one mouth to his left arm. The dead and the living were nearly the same thing at World's End; he felt the bite, and his blood was red and free-flowing.

The creatures' blood was red, too. It spilled on the deck in waves.

Finally they beat back the attack, at the cost to their own of nothing worse than a few missing fingers; the corpses of the dead beasts sank into the still waters without complaint. The crew set to swabbing the deck while James went to find a bandage for his arm.

He found Turner in his cabin, later, peeling off a shirt stuck to him with blood. He was grinning like a madman. "Who said death would be boring, hmm?"

"Not I," James said.

Turner chuckled and started wiping the blood from his chest with a rag. "Well, I'm glad you were back for that one."

"Glad to be of service," he said dryly.

Turner went back to scrubbing his skin clean. James hesitated, then asked, "What is it you keep suggesting to Elizabeth?"

Will stared at him, then craned his neck to look past him. "Close the door," he said softly.

He did. Before he pulled his hand from the latch, Will started talking. When James finally understood, he was stunned to discover that Will Turner was a braver man than he'd ever imagined.

* * *

"The Code?" the pirate said incredulously, then laughed.

Elizabeth moved her hand to her sword. The seven men in the alley before her started jeering, waving their weapons. "The Code is a bunch of useless paper for poofs and old women," their captain sneered. "And no woman so-called-King is going to stop me."

James felt this had gone on long enough; he stepped into the torchlight at Elizabeth's elbow. "Can I be of assistance?" he asked.

Elizabeth grinned fiercely and drew her own sword. "Much appreciated, Mr. Norrington."

The pirates weren't impressed. "Still bad odds for ye," their captain laughed.

"Bad odds," Elizabeth agreed. "For someone."

They closed. The pirates were overconfident, untrained, rabble. Elizabeth had been trained by Will Turner, one of the best swordsmen in Port Royal; Norrington had learned from years in the Navy and on land, from pirates and gentlemen. It really wasn't fair. Especially when one of the pirates got a lucky thrust into James' side; a couple seconds later James had two swords, and even accounting for the burn of the swiftly-sealing wound he was _very_ good at fighting Florentine.

Elizabeth's back was to his, her arms moving in beautiful harmony; he wished, suddenly, that he'd had the chance to go with her, that they'd had the chance to fight together against a worthier foe, that the thrill of the fight and of protecting their own against an invading force could have been from more than beating back a group of pirates who had no idea what they were in for, challenging the King of the Pirates and the second-in-command of the Flying Dutchman.

They let most of them run away. James cleaned off his own sword before sheathing it, gave his borrowed weapon a cursory wipe which did nothing for the rust. He heard Elizabeth doing the same beside him, turned at the touch of her hand on his shoulder.

"You're injured--" she said, panting, staring at what could only be called ichor staining his coat.

"It's nothing," he reassured her.

She grinned at him through quick breaths, then, before he could react, put her hands to his face and kissed him.

My God, was all he managed to think, before she pressed her body against him and he wrapped his arms around her to steady them both. "I--" he started to say when she pulled away, then had no idea how to continue.

"James," she said, "Do you know what Will has been asking me in his letters all these years?"

Oh. She'd finally decided--he didn't know whether to laugh or shout. Instead he nodded and said, "Yes, I asked him--"

"He wants me to be happy," she breathed. "He wants me to find passion, if I need it--and I _need_ it, James. And I want you."

"Elizabeth," he protested, before she kissed him again. He reached up for her hands, pulled her away gently. "Elizabeth, please--"

Her brow was furrowed as she drew back, and then her eyes lit with compassion. "James, I do care for you--I wouldn't ask if I didn't care for you, this isn't just--"

"Elizabeth--"

"Unless," and her voice went dark, "you don't care for me, which I'd understand--"

"Elizabeth," and not too long ago he had thought he'd never get tired of saying her name. How swiftly men's minds changed. "It isn't that. I'm flattered. I'm honored. I do still care for you." He took another breath. "If anything, I still... in some way, still love you."

She stared, uncomprehending, then said, "So you don't want--"

He squeezed her wrists, gently. "Elizabeth, I'm dead."

It was such an absurd thing to say that she stared for a few seconds before she understood. He watched her expression--confusion, understanding, shock, rueful amusement--until she put her arms around him again and buried her face in his chest. "Oh, James, I'm sorry," she said, though she didn't sound sad, just embarrassed.

"I do a very good impression otherwise, I know," he said, stroking her hair.

"Well, now I'm just upset," she said. "That's terrible."

"I still get to see you," he pointed out. "And I am, really, honored beyond words. For me, that's worth the... inconvenience."

Elizabeth shifted her weight in a way that suggested she was _not_ satisfied with the inconvenience. "Well," she said. "I suppose you have another letter from Will?"

"Of course."

"I'd best write him back, then," she said. She kissed him again, briefly, then said, "And clean up before the militia gets around to asking questions."

* * *

Will was... amused.

"You've never mentioned that problem," he said when James had taken up residence in his cabin and helped himself to the brandy, stomach be damned.

"It _isn't_ a problem," he said. "I'm dead. I don't need to eat, I don't need to sleep, I don't need..." he trailed off and took another sip of brandy in lieu of continuing. "And this is very bad for me and I'm going to puke it over the side in an hour, so feel free to cut me off."

"Does it affect you?" Will said, curious.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I haven't had the will to try getting drunk before. And I can't believe you aren't jealous."

Will rolled his eyes. "A _bit_," he admitted, "But only as much as I was that you get to see her, while I'm stuck aboard. I did suggest it."

"Yes, but not with me."

He shrugged. "Better someone I know, and trust. Though _specifically_ you, yes, that could have been better thought out."

"It really isn't fair," James mused. "Barbossa came back from the dead. _Sparrow_ came back from the dead. Even the rest of you traveled to the land of the dead and back. Alive."

"So much for 'it isn't a problem.'"

"I--" he cut himself off, shook his head. "She's your wife."

Will waited.

James sighed. "And... I'm still in love with her. And I've been wishing--begging, for that opportunity, for years."

"Hm," Will said thoughtfully. He tapped his hand on his desk a couple times, then said, "Well, our next chance to surface isn't for a few months yet. You have some time to work out what to say to her."

"Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"James." Will stood, crossed the room, leaned down to clap him on the shoulder. "It'll be all right." He smiled, then picked up the brandy and finished it off in a quick swallow.

James decided that throwing up over the stern would be a far less confusing activity than continuing the conversation, and let himself out.

* * *

Elizabeth took Will's latest letter and read it quickly, there, in the doorway. When she was finished she nodded to herself and said, "Thought so."

James waited, but she didn't turn to go inside, just reached down and picked up a knapsack from beside the door. Then she stepped out and closed the shop behind her, locking it and dropping the key in the bag. At his expression, she tilted her head in the direction of the sea. "Coming?"

"Where are we going?" he asked, following.

"I have a small boat, well, not too small. Cabin below the waterline. Nice and cozy. I sail it on occasion when it all gets too much for me." She resettled the strap on her shoulder and smiled. "Thought we'd go for a short trip."

"I..." he frowned, then in the voice of authority he'd cultivated, asked, "Where to?"

Authority worked far better on cowering midshipmen than on Elizabeth. "Not far. Don't worry."

It was a very pretty boat, smooth lines riding gently on the waves. He helped Elizabeth cast off in an unfriendly tide, then sail out of the bay, along the coast to a small cove where Elizabeth anchored them offshore.

"Come on," she said, drawing him down into the cabin.

"What are we doing here?" he asked as she drew out several things from her bag--a candle, a mirror, a goblet. She lit the candle and crushed a handful of dried herbs into the glass, then cut her palm open and dripped three drops of blood in after them, meditative, the movement reminiscent of similar movements on an island long ago and far away.

She placed her bleeding palm on the mirror, poured water into the goblet until it was full. "Drink this," she said, handing it to him.

"Elizabeth--"

"Drink it," she said, pressing her palm harder on the mirror. He hesitated, but had to back down from the fierceness in her eyes.

It tasted like salt, like saltwater. Like blood. The herbs were ashen on his tongue.

(His body--his real body--had fallen into the waves, been devoured by the creatures of the deep. He could feel those ashes tremble, feel the seawater below him--feel the sword piercing his flesh, feel his muscles start to knit themselves back together. Feel his breath, suddenly, in his throat; his heart, beating steadily, blood flowing in his veins.)

He gasped at the pain, doubled over; Elizabeth took the glass from his fingers before he dropped it. His face felt flushed, sweaty; he was dizzy, too warm. His skin prickled, and he felt--

"James?"

He looked up at her whisper. She drew her hand back from the mirror, drying blood leaving streaks, and pulled at the fastenings on her shirt.

The fabric fell to the floor; candlelight made amber of her skin and gold of her hair. He swallowed hard and stepped forward, letting his mind give name to what he felt: passion, desire, need.

Alive.

* * *

Will looked up when James came to deliver Elizabeth's letter to his cabin. "You're late," he said, then his brow furrowed. "And there's something different about you."

James held up the note in self-defense. "You're going to hate me," he said.

Will frowned, then stood from his desk, crossed the room and pressed his fingers to the side of James' neck. His fingers felt cold, but James refused to flinch.

Will's smile was slow, like sunrise. "Well, well."

"She's very clever," James said softly.

Will snatched the letter from his hand and waved him inside, then closed and locked the door behind him. "Tell me everything."

"I don't know where she learned the spell," he said. He was weaving on his feet. "Something about blood and the sea... seawater and willingly sacrificed blood." He ran his hand over his face. "It felt like dying."

Will took his wrist, gently. "Tell me."

"You don't want to hear..." Will's expression was determined, and finally he broke, "God, Will, she was so beautiful."

Will nodded; his hand was a steady pressure on James' wrist, drawing him further into his cabin. "And?"

"And--" he stumbled, and Will steadied him with his other hand; didn't pull back afterward. "It was like I was dreaming--there she was, and she slid her shirt off, and I had to touch her, had to feel her skin was so warm, God, she was perfect..."

Will slid his hand down James' shirtfront; his thumb caught on a nipple and James gasped, leaned into the pressure. "And?" Will hissed into his ear.

"And she pulled my shirt off and just--pressed against me, and I haven't felt--I've _never_ felt, even before--" Will slid his hand lower, tugged his shirt up enough to push his fingers under it, and the sudden shock of flesh on flesh brought him up short. "I--"

"Keep talking," Will said, fingers sliding back up his chest, as if seeking his heartbeat at the source. "Just... keep talking."

He closed his eyes. "I wanted so badly to just... I forced myself to hold still, and she--she didn't kiss me, not at first, just used her mouth on my throat--" He nearly stopped breathing when he felt Will there, tracing his pulse point with his tongue. "And then I kissed her, I--"

Will put both of his hands around the back of James' neck and kissed him. James moaned incoherently and stepped close, pressing hard against Will's front, taking as much as he could.

Will finally broke off and wrestled James' shirt the rest of the way out of his breeches, pushed it up and off. "What then?"

"We spent a good--minutes, on that," James said. Will's shirt followed his, and it was hard not to stare at the scar on his chest. Will distracted him with another kiss, searing like flame. "Then I grabbed her wrists, pushed her onto the bed--"

Will grabbed him by the wrists and walked him backwards until he was on Will's bed, staring up at him, hands pressed back into the mattress beside his head. Will leaned down and stole another kiss, and James craned his neck up to meet him, dizzy, Will's arousal pressing into his thigh, his own painfully trapped between their bodies. "And?"

"She... wrapped her legs around me--" Will straightened up, grabbed his legs behind the knees, and pulled--and he found himself in much the same position, tilted back, and he reached up and pulled Will down on top of him again. "I could have lost myself just then," he whispered harshly in Will's ear, "But she would never have forgiven me--"

"Not Elizabeth," Will agreed, panting.

He reached down, fumbled with the lacing on Will's breeches, tugged impatiently. "She was rather insistent--"

Will's hands joined his, and soon breeches, boots, underclothes--all got piled on the floor, and then Will was back atop him, pressing his legs up and back almost painfully--reaching for a small jar of oil to slick himself, small concession to reality--

"And?" Will whispered as he dropped the jar on the floor.

James swallowed, hard. "I never thought I'd--she kept--" he dug his heels into the small of Will's back, gently as he could manage, and Will's breath stuttered. "I wanted her so badly, and I never thought anything could feel as good as sliding into her--"

Will moaned and thrust forward, and there was that pinch-burn-YES and he gasped, "And she kept calling yes, yes, and--God, Will, she kept mixing up our names, calling for you half the time and I didn't care--"

"Did--" Will closed his eyes for a moment, then said, "Were you gentle with her?"

"I tried," he panted, "God, she wouldn't _let_ me..."

Will grabbed him by the hips and slammed into him, and again, and his mouth wouldn't stop and he was babbling now as Will fucked him, "I'd wanted her wanted her so badly and now she wanted me and she was so she kept touching me and saying yes so fuck, I yes, I did this, Will, and God, I wish I could have shown you, wish you could have been there, wish we could have shown her this--ah--yes, God, don't stop, yes--"

"I'll tell her," Will growled, "Write her and tell her you said that, let her know what we're doing, what I'm doing to you, and you'll be there when she reads it and finds out--"

"She's yours, Will," he gasped, "and I got to take her, she asked for me, I had to die and come back but she _begged_ me--"

"And every time she does," Will said, "I'll be here and I'll take _you_\--"

It was too much. It was much too much. Will snapped his hips forward again and James lost track of everything in that flare of white-hot YES, barely feeling as Will groaned and thrust again, twice, three times, then collapsed, panting, on top of him.

After a minute he resettled his arms so Will wasn't lying on his right one; his fingers prickled as they woke. Will hummed noncommittally at the motion.

"Was this part of your plan?" James asked when he'd finally caught his breath.

Will looked up, blinked. "I didn't have a plan."

James gave him a disdainful look. "Yes you did."

Caught, Will flashed him a grin. "All right, yes."

"Well, then." He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "According to your plan... what happens now?"

"That's simple." Will yawned and curled up closer. "You take another message to Elizabeth. Then you come back to me. And in five years, I get to go to her... and come back to you."

He craned his neck to look down at Will, at that completely guileless expression. "It can't be that easy."

"Of course not," Will said. "She's the Pirate King, I'm captain of the Flying Dutchman, and you were until recently dead. But aside from that, it'll be easy. You'll see."

James lay back again and thought about that, or tried to, as the motion of the ship on the wine-dark sea rolled them both to sleep. In the end he looped his arms around Will, closed his eyes, and let himself maybe believe.


End file.
